


Bullets, Brothers & Empty Casings

by awabubbles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Pre-Stanford feels, Underage Sex, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:04:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3083972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awabubbles/pseuds/awabubbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment in time where things are changing and Dean feels Sam starting to slip between his fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bullets, Brothers & Empty Casings

_Ping, Ping, Ping._ Old beer bottles shatter and soda cans topple to the ground. The backyard is littered with fallen targets. Bullets. Empty casings. Dean lowers his nickel-plated Colt to examine his handiwork. Seven targets. Seven bullets. Damn he’s good!

“Hey Sammy’d you see that?” Dean asks, swings around so his little brother can validate the moment. But Sam’s not there, he’d gotten bored of this exercise and retreated into their rented home about a half’n hour back. “Bitch,” Dean mutters. Waits for the reply out of habit but there’s only the whining drone of cicadas ringing in his ears.

He discharges the empty magazine and reaches into his back pocket for another, but he’s out. Scuffs his feet in the dirt looking for a spare. Nothing. Stands there in the blazing heat of the summer sun feeling small and pointless.

So he heads back inside.

The entrance to the back of their rented home is about five feet off the ground. There’s supposed to be a porch attached to the back but the wood has rotted away, fallen down into a heap that previous renters have used as firewood for cold winters, or bonfires on hot summer nights. Now the backdoor floats in midair like Houdini had lived here.

Dean doesn’t bother with the back door. There’s an outside-air conditioning unit (that doesn’t work) beneath the window of the bedroom his brother and him share. He uses the unit as a step stool, crawls in and out of the window when he needs to get to the backyard.

Dean stands beneath the window now and tucks his empty gun into the waistband of his pants. Clears his throat and announces himself.  “Hey Sammy! You should have seen that last round, I nailed it.”

He doesn’t know for sure that Sam is sulking in their room. He could actually be outside, in the neighborhood, having fun, doing something with his day. But Dean doubts that. Puberty has cursed his little brother with gangly limbs and a sullen attitude that’s starting to look permanent.

Sure enough, “Good for you,” gets spat at him through the screen-less window. Sam had been here the whole time listening to his target practice. Doing god-knows-what.

Dean rolls his eyes and steps onto the air conditioning unit, starts pulling himself inside. “I’m gonna go for a personal best, next,” he explains. “Set up like, twenty cans. Give myself a few seconds to hit ‘em. Course I need twenty cans first, maybe pick up a couple six packs from around the corner. Hey I’ll even let you help. What d’you think about that Sammy? Been wound up so tight lately bet you could use a dri-oh.”

Dean lifts himself over the window ledge and discovers his little brother examining his stomach in the mirror. Shirt drawn up, tracing the outline of a pink scar on his belly. Werewolves. Last Summer. A closer call than Dean likes to remember.

He stares at Sam staring at himself.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be wasting bullets on a personal record,” Sam finally says. Doesn’t seem to care that his brother is gawking. They lock eyes in the mirror. “The neighbors are already convinced we’re serial killers.”

Sam smiles, just enough to clue his brother in on the joke.

Dean smirks back. “Gotta stay sharp,” he counters. “How else am I gonna save your sorry ass?”

Dean waits for the inevitable bitch face, eye roll, whiny voice combination where Sam insists he doesn’t need saving or points out how dumb Dean is, but instead his little brother just shrugs and says nothing. Dean waits for something, anything, but Sam is done talking about bullets and guns and the reason they need to practice these things. So Dean swings his legs into the room, untucks his the gun from his pants and sets it on the nightstand next to his bed.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asks.

Sam says no, but Dean knows there’s something else his kid brother isn’t telling him. Sam’s been in a mood ever since this morning’s practice when a bullet ricocheted off the house-in part because Sam wasn’t fucking paying attention in the first place. It startled Sam and ever since then he didn’t want to keep going. But Dean knows asking his brother directly will get him nowhere. So he sits on the bed patiently and pretends to clean his gun. Waits for Sam to come to him.

His patience pays off. Sam starts volunteering information within seconds.

“I saw Joe Padrone in the locker room the other day with this like fucking perfect six pack,” Sam explains, “and not a mark on him.  I mean he’s quarterback on the football team right? Not even a bruise. How do you pull that off?”

Dean looks up at his brother curiously. “You checkin’ out other boys, Sammy?” Dean teases. Brief, stupid, pang of jealously. Even though he knows that’s not what this is about, Dean can’t help turning into a caveman when it comes to his little brother. Mine. No-Touchy. Ugha-ugha.

But Sam ignores him. Keeps staring at the long pink scar on his belly. The bruise on his abdomen and the yellow splotch on his upper arm where Dean had caught him during a sparring match earlier in the week.  His youthful skin is cut and colored like a modern painting. “It just reminds me that it’s like, not normal to look like this all the time,” he says.

Dean falters, just for a second, then grabs at his chest like Sam has a nice, ripe pair of tits. “Aww c’mon Sammy, you’ll fill out just give it time!” He grins big and hopes that if he looks stupid enough, Sam will laugh. Dean doesn’t mind playing the fool if it gets his brother to smile. Sometimes it works, and there’s one more day of peace where Sam doesn’t beat them both up because of the way they live, the way they’re raised. But today’s not one of those days.

“When someone has a scrape or a scar it’s like ‘oh I fell off my bike’,” Sam continues. “Or ‘I scraped my knee’ not ‘oh I almost got gutted by a werewolf last summer’. I’ve _always_ got a scar, or stitches. I have bruises up and down my body and I have to hide them. I have to hide _myself_ , because I don’t want people looking too closely. I’m tired of making excuses,” Sam sighs. “I’m tired of how easy it is to lie about everything. I’m tired of _having to lie_.”

Dean hesitates. Honestly he just wants to drain a few beers and keep shooting at cans until the sun goes down. He could probably still do that, but he’d be doing it alone. So what was the point?

He finally quits pretending to clean his gun and gets off the bed to stand behind Sam. His little brother silently examines himself for another minute before acknowledging him, letting his shirt fall. But Dean reaches around and lifts the shirt up again, isn’t done looking at him just yet.

“I don’t want them looking too closely either,” he says. Tone shift. If joking doesn’t work, maybe this will.

Sam is surprised at first, but then struggles not to smile. Dean’s touch light but possessive. “Pervert,” he accuses.

Dean agrees and wraps his arms around his brother. Closes the distance between them. Reminds Sam he’s there. “What are you doing, huh? Comparing yourself to Joe? Fuck ‘im. Fuck ‘im and his girlfriend with her nasally laugh. And fuck all of those jock kiss-ass wannabes too. What have they ever done with their lives? What are they ever gonna _do_ with their lives?”

 _Go to college and have, like, a normal family_ , Sam thinks. But he lets Dean touch him and he doesn’t argue. His brain gets all fuzzy when his brother is close; he loses the instinct to fight. Which is probably why he fucked up target practice earlier that day. It scares Sam. He knows the consequences for losing focus: another family member dead and buried.

But Sam can’t help it. They can fuck all day and Dean can just pick up a gun and fire off ten rounds and hit every target, like there’s a switch in his brain. Dean says it’s experience, and practice and that’s what Sam needs more of. But Sam doubts it. He hates this. He’s not cut out for it. And it’s only so long before he’s the thing that sends Dean to the grave. Sam’s starting to think maybe it would just be better if he left. He’s starting to think about that everyday.

Dean’s grip tightens. “Just promise you won’t hide from _me_ , huh Sammy?”

They lock eyes in the mirror again. Dean looks too vulnerable for his liking and Sam pulls away, turns around.

“What are you talking about?”

Dean’s face is carefully neutral. _He’s better at hiding himself then I’ll ever be_ , Sam thinks. But then Dean smiles, takes his brother’s hand and slides it up under his own shirt this time. Sam blinks furiously as Dean guides his fingertips over a scar above his pelvis, similar to his own but the monster goes by a different name.

“Angry spirit. June. Missouri,” Sam recites. Knows every mark and scrape on his brother’s body. And he should, he’s familiar with every part of it.

Dean nods, moves his hand again, his body a roadmap that he wants Sam to read.

“Witch. October. Salem.”

“That was a wicked Halloween party,” Dean grins and Sam smiles back, feels his face turn red.

Then Dean takes of his shirt and points to another scar just under his right arm.

“That one was a while ago,” Sam says distantly, tracing repetitive circles over his brother’s skin. “Before dad ever made me go hunting.”

“Mhhm,” Dean confirms. “You remember what it was?”

“I’ll never forget. A stray bullet from some hunter, an actual hunter, in the woods. I don’t know why that was so scary. We’re always on edge for monsters and it’s like, you forget all the regular things that can kill you too.”

“Yeah, turned out alright though didn’t?” Dean asks. And he’s got a lazy smile that still makes Sam forget his brother isn’t invincible.

“One more,” Dean prompts, gives him a serious look. “And this one’s for all the money.”

Sam snorts as Dean guides his hand again. Past his upper arm, past his waist, past the scar on his pelvis, dipping below the line of his jeans till Sam’s hand is cupped around his brother’s balls, palming something stiff through the fabric of his jeans.

“Dean,” Sam flushes. Can’t let go because Dean holds him there.

“No guesses?” his brother asks, deep and throaty but Sam’s mind is totally blank. “You. Me. Here. Now.”

Sam shudders, thinks that’s not fair. Technically Dean’s dick in his hand isn’t a scar, so how was he supposed to know that? But as his brother kisses him he realizes they’re both cut into each other the same way someone carves a heart into an old tree. And Dean is touching him to make sure his initials are still there, that everything is still the same. So Sam moans into his big brother’s lips to ease his mind.

“Okay,” he consents. And Dean literally picks him up, and drops him on to the bed.

They’re not shy about this now, accept it for whatever it is. So Dean undoes his belt as Sam slips his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans. Wiggles them and his boxers down over his slim hips and slides his legs out. He lays back and waits for his brother but Dean’s not satisfied.

“All of it,” he commands, and tugs Sam’s shirt over his head.

Sam scoffs but complies, shrugs his shoulders so the shirt slides right off. Dean looks him over once more, touches those bruises and cuts that Sam frowned at earlier. Then he leans down and kisses the pink scar on Sam's belly.

“That werewolf, dad put a bullet through its head, remember?” he asks.

Sam nods silently, naked and exposed under his brother’s touch. Already felt a hot flush covering his cheeks, rushing down to his gut. Werewolves and guns and his brother’s soft kisses. Wires getting crossed. Fuck, they’d never been straight to begin with.

“I remember how disappointed you were that it wasn’t you,” Sam breathes shakily.

“It took a swipe at you,” Dean concludes. “I wanted it’s head on a fucking platter. Got off a couple of rounds but there was only one gun with the _silver_ bullets.”

“Dad’s.”

“But who stitched you up afterwards huh? Who took you to that stupid hippy place up the street with like vegan bread and overpriced cupcakes?”

“You did,” Sam says.

“And who drives you to school every day in our sweet ride so you’re not crammed on to a bus with a bunch of brats?”

Sam laughs. He doesn’t mind taking the bus, but of all the normal things he’s had to sacrifice, being driven to school in a ‘67 Chevy Impala by his big brother was never something he resented. “You do,” Sam smiles as their bodies press closer inch by inch.

Dean hums in agreement, kisses Sam’s neck, bites playfully at his collarbone.

“And after your first hunt, who laid you out on that cheap pull out mattress in Missouri and ate you out till you cried like a little girl?”

Sam’s dick twitches and he gasps a little at the memory. “ _You did_ ,” he groans as Dean’s body covers him completely, their cocks pressing against each other, flushed and aching.

“That’s right. I know you baby boy, inside and out. So don’t you hide from me,” Dean warns as he wraps a hand around both their cocks. “Don’t you ever hide from _me_.”

Dean’s scent is in his nose, and his hands are on his body. He’s there when Sam opens his eyes and when he closes them too. Dean is everywhere and everything. He touches them both and Sam is helpless because _DeanDeanDean_!

“Don’t know when we got like this, Sammy,” Dean pants. “Maybe it’s always been like this, yeah? And it’s always gonna be.”

Sam’s hips rise and fall as he fucks into Dean’s broad, calloused hand. His brains are gone. Everything is focused on his cock, fat and swollen and side-by-side next to his brother’s. These are the only moments he feels safe. Loose enough to unfurl in front of his brother and forget about everything he hates in his life, which is just about everything. Except for this. Except for this. 

“Always just you and me Sammy.” Dean grips them both tightly and focuses on the end.

Sam comes with a sputtering gasp. Clinging to him and shuddering until he collapses on the bed. Dean's little brother pants, cherry-red mouth open, chest rising and falling, pupils dilated. Dean slows his rhythm, chooses not to come just yet. He studies Sam, instead, the long length of his growing body. It feels like it’s changing every day. Sometimes he has to run his hands over his brother just to make sure everything’s still in place. Like one day he might blink he won't recognize his little brother anymore.

“Always you and me, right Sammy?” Dean repeats. Sam’s cock is still in his hands, he slows down, simply keeps his grip on them, together.

Sam’s breathing slows. He blinks the arousal out of his eyes. “Right,” he says, and smiles at his brother. But it’s stale. He’s less open than he was a second before and there’s a wall there Dean never noticed. It catches him off-guard. He freezes. He stares.

“I’ll suck you off,” Sam offers, when Dean just lingers there like an idiot. He licks his lips when he sees his brother’s cock still hard and starting to leak.

Dean sees this and nods stiffly, shifting positions. He looks Sam over one more time, trying to see if there was something he missed. Sam smiles sweetly at him and brushes his hair behind his ears, leans down and wraps his lips around Dean’s cock.

Dean closes his eyes. Sam’s come feels tacky in his hand.

 


End file.
